


In Another City, We Were Ghosts

by cridecoeur



Series: We Are Ghosts [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-01
Updated: 2011-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 18:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cridecoeur/pseuds/cridecoeur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s here to meet a sister he hasn’t seen in six years, and a mother he’s never seen at all. (Or, the small town BFFs AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Another City, We Were Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> ... Right. So. This was going to be a long piece. Like really long. It was going to involve a plot and everything. But really, the whole reason I wanted to do it was so I could write about John, Sherlock, and Harry being BFFs and having small town teen shenanigans (because I lived in a series of ridiculously small towns as a kid, and I don't care what anyone says, when you have a bunch of smart, creative, _extremely bored_ teens in a small town, the shenanigans are epic), and frankly, I don't need a complicated plot to do that. Also, plot and I are frenemies on the best of days, and I have enough of it with _Birds_. So I got 5,000 words into this, did the mental equivalent of saying FUCK THIS and knocking the feeble plot I had down the stairs. Now this is a second series along the lines of _Lumos_ , told in short pieces that are pretty much all shenanigans (though some pieces will be serious and actually veer into the realm of "shit, this has a plot"). So, yeah. This does technically have a plot and a definite ending, but I refuse to write a bunch of stupid filler when I don't need to. SO. First in a series. Have fun with it.

John’s father dies in Afghanistan. The Afghani insurgents don’t kill him. Friendly fire, they tell John. He took a bullet in the back. The military is investigating the incident. If someone should be brought to justice, they will be. He was a brave man; he still died for his country. He was only shot from the back instead of from the front. He is still a hero.

And John’s father is still dead.

The train station is muggy. John has a suitcase too large for him to lift by himself - a trunk, really, not even a suitcase. Stickers with the names of exotic places are slapped across the surface: Buenos Aires, Cairo, Yangon. John has never seen these cities. He lives in London. He _lived_ London, at least. Now he’s disembarking from a train in a town not much larger than a postage stamp, dragging his trunk behind him. Everything he owns is in that trunk.

He’s only taking it with him because they told him he should; they won’t be able to buy him new things, where he’s going. He’d rather leave it behind with the London townhouse and his bicycle and his memories of his father.

He’s here to meet a sister he hasn’t seen in six years, and a mother he’s never seen at all.

No one else disembarks at the station. The place is dilapidated, looking like something time froze 30 years back. The whole structure is wooden. Dirt lightens the wood, which is warped in places, bulging, and sometimes cracked. There is a clock hanging over the station that has stopped. He squints up at it, unimpressed. They can’t even keep their clocks running.

“Johnny!” someone calls, and John turns to find a girl in a yellow sundress, soft blonde curls hanging loose around her face, waving one arm at him. “Oi, Johnny! Over here.”

John wrinkles up his nose - he’s never been called anything but John - but drags his trunk towards her, anyways. He can see that her shoulders are pinked from the sun and that she has a smattering of freckles across her face. She’s smiling.

She can’t be anyone but Harry, even though she looks nothing like she did. Somehow, he didn’t expect her to look so much older. Six years. People change a lot in six years. She might be insufferable now. She called him Johnny. That’s not a good start.

“Hello,” John says, as he drags his trunk right in front of her. She’s almost a head taller than him. That’s a little embarrassing. She’s only a year older than him, and she’s a girl.

“You great daft git,” Harry says, and then pulls him into a hug. John stiffens in her arms briefly, surprised, and then relaxes, patting her on the back, a little awkwardly. “I haven’t seen you in six years and all you can say is ‘Hello.’ And you’re supposed to be good with words. So much for that.”

“I have a blog,” John says, muffled in her shoulder. She really is very tall. “Just because I have a blog doesn’t mean I’m good with words.”

“Better than me,” Harry says and finally releases John. “I can’t string a sentence together to save my life.”

“You just did,” John says, and Harry laughs.

“Oh, we’re going to get along just fine,” she says. She starts walking, backwards. “Come on. Mum’s waiting. She didn’t want to get out of the car.”

John grunts and begins pulling his trunk along behind him, while Harry keeps chattering away, walking backwards all the way to the end of the station, like she’s afraid he won’t keep following her if she turns around. John’s not sure where exactly she expects him to go. Back to London maybe. As if he has anything to go back to, but a house that isn’t his, and a step-mother who doesn’t want him in it.

“Here, let me help you with that,” Harry says, making motion to grab his trunk, when they reach a set of stairs leading down to the road - what passes for a road here, at least, which John fancies feels like a washboard, being driven on.

“I’ve got it,” John says, and then steps around and shoves the trunk down the stairs.

“… That’s a way to do it,” Harry says. “Hope you didn’t have anything breakable in there.”

“If I had, I wouldn’t have pushed it down the stairs,” John says.

“Fair enough,” Harry says and then goes clomping down the stairs. For a girl in a dress, she’s not being all that girlish. John follows her, one hand clasping the stair railing. He actually has to reach up to clasp it. He really is abysmally short.

“Here, I’ve got this side,” Harry says, grabbing a handle on one side of the trunk. “You grab the other.”

“I can get it myself,” John says, and Harry rolls her eyes.

“You _can_ ,” she said. “But you don’t _have_ to. And we have to get it in the car.”

“Oh,” John says. “Right.” He grabs the other trunk handle then stumbles a bit when Harry starts off without any warning, really just dragging him along behind her, before he catches up with her pace.

“There she is,” Harry says, and John sees a right ugly looking Corsa parked up against the curb. The car wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t covered in dirt and the paint weren’t chipped all over. The whole town is covered in dirt, as far as John can tell. He’s not impressed so far.

Harry drops the trunk - John nearly overbalances - and opens the car’s boot.

“Come on then, let’s get her in,” she says, grabbing hold of the trunk again. With a minimal amount of nearly falling over under the weight they manage to get it in.

“Perfect,” Harry says, surveying the results, proudly, as if she were responsible for the just-right size of the boot.

“Now, come on,” she says, walking around the car, “In we go,” And opens the passenger-side door. Inside, in the driver’s seat is - well, she must be John’s mother. She has Harry’s soft curls, but John’s nose and eyes.

“Hello, John,” she says, and she has a soft voice, too. A motherly voice, John supposes, the sort best suited to offering comfort.

“Hello,” John says, and then stumbles a bit over what to call her - he settles on, “Mum,” and she smiles, a bit tentatively.

“Right,” Harry says, “Come on, get in. We haven’t got all day,” and gives him a bit of a shove. John just about trips on his own feet, but manages to clamber into the back, over the folded down passengers seat. Harry pops the seat back up into place and hops in.

“We’re going to get you settled at home,” his… Mum says. “And then Harry wanted to take you around town for a bit.”

“Not much to it,” Harry says. “But it’s better than staying shut up in the house.”

John looks out the window. The town doesn’t seem like much to write home about, no, a few dust-covered buildings and bumpy streets. Not that John has anyone to write to, now. “Alright,” John says.

The ride’s a bit awkward. Harry tries to fill up the silence with meaningless chatter - John’s starting to think she has a problem with quiet - but eventually gives up when John’s replies remain mostly monosyllabic and turns the radio on.

“Just one station out here,” she says. “But it’s one more than they get in the next town.”

“I don’t mind,” John says, even if he does, sort of. He didn’t listen to the radio much in London, but the fact that he could have chosen from any number of stations seems suddenly very important, now that he only has one to listen to.

The radio plays, and they sit in silence for the rest of the ride.

#

The house isn’t as bad as John expected - still not much to write home about, but not _bad_. The outside is painted fresh white - not even dirty, yet - and there’s a porch with a swing that doesn’t look like it’s about to collapse or give John a thousand splinters. He and Harry drag the trunk up onto the porch and his Mum unlocks the front door, holding it open for them.

“We don’t have a room for you,” his Mum says. “But you can share with Harriet. Her room is plenty big enough, and we got you your own bed.”

Harry makes a purse-mouthed face of displeasure. “ _Harry_ , Mum,” she says, then, “You’d better not snore.”

“I don’t,” John says, even though he’s not sure if he does. He’s never had to sleep in the same room as someone before, especially not a _girl_.

“Come on,” Harry says, “I’ll show you,” and grabs the trunk again.

They don’t go far. There really aren’t many rooms in the house. Harry’s room is painted a fresh, soft yellow. Country yellow, John thinks. There are two beds set up, one with a deep red comforter, red like wine, and the other with a comforter covered in flying pigs.

“That’s your bed,” Harry says, nodding towards the flying-pigs bed, and John wrinkles his nose up in distaste, but doesn’t say anything about the bed spread, just drags his trunk to the foot of the bed and drops it. Harry flops down on her own bed, the skirt of her dress spreading out around her. John sits on the edge of his own - it’s a bit too firm. His bed in London was softer. He liked it that way. “You’ll probably be dead bored around here.” She smiles over at him, slyly. “Unless you’re the sort to cause trouble. Trouble’s about the only fun we have.”

“Sometimes,” John says, because that’s the truth. His step-mother said he was trouble all of the time, which was mostly why he got sent out here. That, and she’d never liked him much. The feeling was mutual.

“Well, good,” Harry says. “I wouldn’t want to be stuck with some stodgy old bore.”

“Guess I’ll cause a bit of trouble, then,” John says, and Harry smiles at him again.

“Knew you’d be alright,” she says, then sits up in bed suddenly. “Right, you’ve seen the house, let’s get out of here.” She levers herself up. “Might as well introduce you around and all that.”

John doesn’t point out that all he’s seen is her bedroom, really. He doesn’t fancy the rest of the house will be much more exciting. He stands up and follows her out of the room and the _maybe_ fifteen feet to the front door. The house really is very small.

He doesn’t see his Mum, which is strange only because the rooms are all open, except for Harry’s room and one extra door, which is closed, now. John guesses that’s where she’s tucked away.

Harry pushes the door open and lets it slam closed behind them, the clatters down the porch steps.

“Got you a bike,” Harry says, which is the first time John realizes there are two bikes leaned up against the porch. They look a bit odd, like they’re made out of copper piping and PVC. “Well, got Sherlock to make you a bike by blackmailing him a bit, really.” She sets her hands on her hips and looks down at the bikes. “Fancy he was mostly bored, though. Plus Mycroft hates when he tears out the piping. Even if he does replace it,” which answers John’s question about what the bike’s made up of.

“Sherlock?” he says.

“You’ll meet him,” Harry says. “Bit of a nut. But he’s never boring.”

“Right,” John says and watches Harry pick up her own bike; he takes the other, and follows her as she wheels it onto the street.

“Come on,” she says, and slings a leg over the bike, skirt hiked well up. One wrong move and everyone will see her knickers; John tries not to feel too much embarrassment over that. He follows her lead and soon they’re biking towards the center of town, which consists of a police station, a grocer’s, a petrol station, a pub, and one lone diner.

“Wow,” John says.

Harry gives him a knowing sort of look. “Told you the only fun we have is trouble,” she says. She hops off her bike and smooths her skirt down. John feels a bit better about the situation. “Come on, you might as well meet everyone.” She wheels her bike towards the diner, and John follows her. Over the diner door is a simple sign reading _Irene’s_. Harry drops her bike carelessly beside the door.

“Aren’t you afraid someone’s going to steal it?” John says, and Harry looks back at him, laughing.

“Like who?” she says. “Everybody knows everybody. It’s not like they’d be able to hide it.”

“Oh,” John says, “Right, then,” and drops his bike beside hers. He’s hardly been outside of London and never in a town this small. He’s not sure he likes the idea of everybody knowing all about him.

“You won’t get to meet Sherlock, yet,” Harry says, pushing through the door. “He’s been banned for life, again.”

“Again?” John says.

Harry laughs. “Yeah, he’s been banned for life at least six times,” she says. “Irene never manages to hold out. Probably because of Mycroft. They’re having a _dalliance_ ,” she adds, wiggling her eyebrows in a manner that manages to be exceptionally lewd. Eyebrows shouldn’t be able to do that.

John looks around the diner. The seats are red vinyl, and the tables are laminated. There are checkered tiles on the walls. There’s even a counter with stools set up, right in front of the kitchen.

“Bit cliche, isn’t it?” John says.

“Oh, definitely,” Harry says. “Irene fancies all that retro nonsense. Thinks it gives the place _character_.”

“Well,” John says, as Harry leads him toward the counter, walking backwards again, like he’s going to make a run for it. “It’s not bad or anything.”

Harry rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to try, John,” she says. “She’s not going to care one way or the other, if you like it.”

“I like it,” John says, firmly, determined to do so. He’s going to be local. He’ll like local things.

Harry shrugs. “Alright,” she says. “Suit yourself.” She hops up onto a stool without even looking behind her, then spins towards the counter. John takes the stool next to her.

“Well, now, who’s this,” someone says, and John turns to find a woman with a riot of red hair, wearing an apron and watching him. She’s… beautiful. She’s the prettiest woman he’s ever seen in person. She looks like she should be on TV, not stuck in a small town, in the middle of nowhere.

“This is my little brother, John,” Harry says. John mostly wishes she hadn’t said little. It makes him sound like a kid. “He got sent here from London.”

“Oh, really,” Irene says. “A city boy.” She cocks a hip against the counter, smiling. “Hope you don’t find this all too boring.”

“Oh, no, it’s… “ John says, and then can’t think of anything to say. Irene’s smile widens, and John figures she knows already so he might as well not lie. “Yeah, alright, it’s a bit boring.”

“Well, then,” Irene says, “I’ll just have to make you something interesting,” and saunters back toward the kitchen. John must be staring because Harry elbows him in the ribs and says, “Oi, she’s at least 10 years older than you.”

“I wasn’t,” John says, but Harry’s smirking at him. He sighs. “She’s really pretty.”

“Sure is,” Harry says. “She’s not really a redhead, though. She dyed it. She thinks it makes her look like a movie star. Like Rita Hayworth.”

“She does,” John says, and Harry grins, wide.

“Johnny’s got a crush!” Harry crows. “Aww.”

The bell over the door rings before John can reply, and he turns to find a young black girl with great curly hair walking through the door. She’s followed by a boy with black hair and a pinched expression.

“Sally!” Harry calls, and the girl turns towards her, then grimaces, but walks over, anyways.

“What do you want, Harry?” Sally says, not even sparing John a look.

“Just wanted to introduce you to John,” Harry says, motioning to him. “My brother from London. Sally and Andy are having an _affair_ ,” Harry adds, in the sort of hushed voice everyone can still hear. “Which only her Mum cares about, really.”

Sally scowls. “Shut up, Harry,” she says, then turns to John. “Your sister’s a bint.”

“She’s not,” John says, suddenly very defensive of Harry, even if he’s only been around her now for a couple hours. “And don’t talk about her like that.

Harry laughs. “Don’t worry about it, John,” Harry says. “Sally’s just bitter that Andy’s all she can get. He’s a right idiot.”

“Sod off. At least I don’t hang about the freak,” Sally says and goes stomping off in the other direction, where Andy is waiting, face pinched even further.

“Like I said,” Harry says, blithely, “ _Bitter_.”

“Who’s the freak?” John says, and Harry smiles wide.

“Oh, she’s talking about Sherlock,” Harry says. “He’s about a hundred times smarter than any of us.” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “Except Mycroft. But don’t say that around him. He’ll have a fit.”

“Sure,” John says, even though he doesn’t know who either Sherlock or Mycroft are, except for how Sherlock’s somebody Harry hangs about with, apparently. Hopefully he’s not a tosser, if John’s going to see him around.

“Here we are,” Irene says, suddenly, from behind him, and John spins around. She sets a dish down in front of him. “Lamb tikka masala. Our specialty.”

“Got too many bloody sheep out here is why,” Harry says, while John picks up his spoon and digs in.

“It’s good,” John says after a few bites, and he isn’t even lying, which is a relief. If there is only one place to eat, he’s glad the food is good. Or at least some of the food. Everything else might still be awful.

“I’m glad,” Irene says, smiling, and then walks off towards Sally and Andy, who have claimed a booth over in the corner, about as far from Harry and John as they can get. John watches her go, and Harry snorts. When John looks over, he finds her watching Irene, too. Without looking away, she says, “She’s too smart for you, John. Even if she wasn’t about a dozen years too old.”

“Oi,” John says. “I’m smart.”

“Sure,” Harry says, finally looking back at him. “But she’s smart. She’s too smart for anyone, really. Except maybe Mycroft. Sherlock even thinks so, and he’s an arse about that sort of thing.” She looks back at Irene, who’s taking Sally and Andy’s orders. “Hurry up and eat. Places to see.”

John doesn’t point out, there really _isn’t_ much to see, just spins back around on his stool and digs in.

#

The diner bell rings, as they walk out. Harry doesn’t even pick up her bike, just starts walking - towards the pub, apparently.

“Er,” John says, “are they going to let us - “ and Harry cuts across him with a, “Don’t worry. Lestrade owns it. He’s a copper, so he won’t let us order anything, but there’s snooker and pinball, so it’s alright.”

John blinks, surprised. “Why’s he got a pub?”

“Nobody ever does anything out here,” Harry says, as she opens the door, holding it for him. “He’s got to have something to do.”

Nobody’s really in there - it’s only afternoon, so no surprise there - just one fellow with an umbrella that looks like it’s _also_ made of copper piping and maybe a bit of wiring.

“That’s Mycroft,” Harry says, following his gaze. “Spends a lot of time around Lestrade. Bit strange but he’s alright.”

Mycroft turns around, as if he can feel them watching him, and smiles, mildly. “Harriet. How lovely to see you.” He lifts the drink he has set in front of him. Doesn’t look like he’s had any of it. “And who is this?”

“This is John,” Harry says. “My brother. Got sent here from London.” Harry seems to think the London bit is important, the way she keeps tacking it on. Maybe they don’t get many people from London around. Actually, they probably don’t get many people from anywhere. Not much reason to be here, unless you live here.

“Sherlock will be thrilled,” Mycroft says. John can’t tell if he means it or not. He’s got the sort of voice that doesn’t give much away. John bets he’s practiced that. Harry laughs.

“Yeah, and I’ll eat my shoes,” Harry says. “No offense,” she adds, turning towards John. “Sherlock just doesn’t care much for most people. Not unless they’ve been murdered or something.”

John blinks. “A lot of people get murdered out here?” he says.

“Nah,” Harry says. “But not for lack of Sherlock wanting them to. He’s always reading books about it. They’re _gruesome_.” Harry sounds like she approves of that. The gruesome part. John’s starting to think she’s a little off. Not in a bad way. Just not much like a usual girl.

“Come on,” Harry says, “I’m going to beat you at snooker.”

“Who says you’re going to win?” John says.

“Oh, John,” Harry says.

#

Harry beats the pants off him.

“Told you,” she says, leaning on her cue.

“Yeah, alright,” John says, a bit churlishly. He’s never lost so badly in his life. She potted just about every ball there was. She’s a _shark_.

“Don’t feel bad,” someone says, and John turns to find a man with salt and pepper hair standing behind the bar. He doesn’t look old enough to have hair like that. He must be Lestrade. “Nobody beats Harry at snooker. I’d have warned you, but she’s less trouble when she’s occupied.”

John looks at Harry, and she shrugs. “It’s true,” she says, then smiles. “Especially the bit about me being trouble.”

The door of the bar opens, then, and a ridiculously tall boy with a riot of black curls walks in. The clothes he’s wearing look like they cost more than all of John’s clothes together. He’s also got a bike that looks exactly like John’s that he’s - John blinks - that he’s brought inside with him. Lestrade looks long-suffering but doesn’t say anything.

“Sherlock!” Harry crows. “About bloody time. You just missed Mycroft.”

“What a terrible shame,” Sherlock says, and he _definitely_ doesn’t mean it. He turns to John and says. “Hello, John. Your step-mother didn’t wait long to be rid of you. How little respect she has for the dead.”

John blinks. “Who told you that?” he says.

“Oh, nobody needs to tell Sherlock, anything,” Harry says, leaning back against the snooker table - the straps of her dress are hanging precariously on her shoulders. She even sounds a bit proud. “He just _knows_.”

“Nobody just _knows_ ,” John says.

Harry smiles. “Go on, then, Sherlock,” Harry says. “Show him.”

Sherlock gives John the most piercing look that… well pretty much anyone has ever given him. He’s got to be at least 10 years too young for that look - John’s a bit unsettled, he’ll admit.

“You are wearing a cross on your jacket,” Sherlock says. “But not simply a cross. A military cross. Hardly a typical gift to a child. Likely the situation in which it was given was unusual. An active soldier would not shunt a child off on relatives with whom they have had nearly no contact with one of their military awards, especially when they are expected to stay there. That sort of abandonment does not speak of sentimental attachment, and it would take great sentimental attachment to separate a soldier from a military cross.

“They were not the one who sent you away, then,” Sherlock says. “Death seems a likely cause for separation, especially likely for an active soldier. Your mother resides here. If your father had not wanted you with him, he would have sent you here years ago. He has almost certainly remarried, as military men do. Your step-mother, then - she doesn’t care for you overmuch, enough that she has not respected a wish for you to stay separated from your mother, which certainly your father had or he would not have kept you cut off from her so long.

“The length of time she kept you is questionable,” Sherlock says. “That was conjecture based mostly on sentimentality. You are still _wearing_ the cross, which you could lose far more easily by doing so - also your jacket is far too warm for the weather, but you could not wear it on something lighter. The event is recent enough and so the need for comfort great enough for you to continue doing so. I would say your father died no longer than a month ago.”

“As I said,” Sherlock said. “Your step-mother didn’t wait long to be rid of you. How little respect she has for the dead.”

John stares at him for a moment, feeling something very much like awe blooming in his chest. “That’s incredible,” John says, and Harry smiles widely behind him, then surprises John by clapping. “I mean bloody _incredible_.”

Sherlock watches him for a moment - something that looks very much like a smile begins to flirt with the corners of his mouth. “Undoubtedly a Watson,” Sherlock says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John says, and Harry laughs.

“Nobody much likes when he does that,” Harrys says. “Except for me and Mum, really. But that’s because they’re all great bloody idiots.”

“Far too true,” Sherlock murmurs. “Come, now. I think you’ve embarrassed him enough - I wouldn’t bother playing her again, John, you’ll lose every time.” He tilts his head to one side. “Though it’s well worth watching her clean out Anderson. He shows uncommon persistence in his idiocy.”

John feels a bit like he should protest, but for all he knows Anderson _does_. Plus Sally called Harry a bint, and if Anderson is Andy, then John has decided not to like him by association.

“Alright by me,” Harry says. “He as good as bought me all my clothes.” She tugs at the skirt of her sundress. “And Mrs. Hudson’s new sewing machine.” She pushes away from the snooker table, hiking the straps of her dress back into place. “What do you say, Sherlock. The river?” she says, and John blinks, uncomprehendingly.

“The river,” Sherlock confirms. Behind the counter Lestrade sighs; John had almost forgotten he was there.

“Don’t do anything I’ll have to go to Mycroft about,” he says. “Or your Mum, Harry.”

“No guarantees,” Sherlock says, then turns and walks straight out the door, Harry following closely behind.

“… Right, then,” John says and hurries after them because if they’re going to do something worth Lestrade going to family about, he’d like to see it.

**Author's Note:**

> My Harry's definitely going to be jossed by canon. Yet another reason I wanted to post this now.


End file.
